Chuck Vs The Therapist
by MissMonk
Summary: Chuck's being forced into seeing a professional. Just working out my depression on poor Chuck again. Angsty One-Shot.


A/N. Just a short one shot. its pretty angsty just so you know. Thank you to charahkids for betaing it for me!

"So Mr. Carmichael, tell me about yourself." The woman in front of him asked. Chuck glanced up at the woman for a moment before focusing his eyes upon the carpeted floor again. He didn't want to be there, he had fought against it. But like everything in his life as of late he didn't have a choice.

Silence spread through the room with the tension that Chuck could feel clinging tightly upon his skin. He wondered if the woman, the Doctor, could feel it the same as he did, but she gave nothing away. She sat there in a relaxed position in her winged back leather chair, legs crossed, glasses perched perfectly on her tiny nose as she stared in his direction awaiting his words. He didn't speak, didn't make a sound and she wrote something down on the pad of paper on her lap with a pen that could possibly cost more than a week's pay on his Buy More wages.

This was unusual for him. Normally Chuck had no problem talking. Babbling and spilling his guts when afraid or nervous was an annoying habit he's had since childhood. His sister Ellie had teased him for it as they grew up, until the time when their mother left. With their father there but not really 'there' she had been fearful that his previously charming quirk would land them into trouble, and had therefore tried as hard as possible to cultivate the habit.

She'd be proud of him at this very moment, if only she were allowed to know. Which was part of why he was there in the first place.

"Take your time Mr. Carmichael, we have all day for this." She told him in what Chuck was sure she believed was a placating manner, but to him it just sound hallow with a hint of impatience. Yet another thing he was getting used to, the impatience that singed every voice that spoke to him now.

Yet again he didn't respond, didn't even look up this time. There was no point. Chuck hadn't a clue on what he would say, what he could say. Everything was so wrapped up in classified information and on some days Chuck didn't know if he was coming or going.

"I was informed by your handlers that you are something of a chatterbox." The woman, who had introduced herself at the beginning as Dr. Sanders stated. "I must say, if this is chatterbox I'd hate to meet their version of silence." A small smile crossed her face but Chuck felt it was insincere, felt it was practiced to be placating in order to get people to open up.

Normally it would work on Chuck, but not lately. Not anymore. He could no longer naïvely believe that the people he meets are genuine. That they are just normal people out to seek whatever it is they are looking for or asking about. Everything is false. Everything is a lie.

"How about you tell me about your family? It says here you have a sister?" The doctor suggested.

Again, Chuck remained tight lipped. There was no way he was going to bring up anything about his family or friends. Nothing in his personal life. Nothing that can be used against him. Sure it was common knowledge with the government everyone that he associated with but that didn't mean that he would give them anything more than what was public knowledge.

Chuck brought is lanky arms closer to his body, letting his slim fingers of his right hand lightly trace the still dark marks that marred his skin right under his long sleeve shirt. The reason he was there talking to this doctor. The marks caused a tickling sensation on his skin and he resisted the urge to scratch harder, to make them bleed and allow his mind so relief to focus on that instead of everything else.

"Mr. Carmichael-"

"Chuck." He muttered, interrupting the woman. He heard her breath hitch slightly at the sound of his voice but a quick glance at her thinned lips showed him she wasn't surprised or impressed.

"I'm sorry?" She asked him.

Chuck dug his fingernails against the marks, feeling a slight sting from them giving him a second of clarity. "I prefer Chuck." He told her softly.

The sound of pen writing on paper once again filled the room and Chuck wondered idly what the good doctor was writing about him. He wondered what impact it will have on him in the future. What will the doctor's report on his session do to his future?

"Mr. Carmichael, while you're my only patient today we really should try to make some headway. Why don't you tell me why you are here?" She suggested to him.

Chuck tugged down on his sleeve, covering his wounds so they wouldn't be a temptation. Looking up at the woman he narrowed his eyes in slight confusion, not fully understanding the question. She knew why he was there, probably more than he did. All the questions she had been asking him the doctor already had the answers on. The whole point of this exercise was pointless to him.

"I don't know." He muttered softly, crossing his own lanky legs together as he leaned back to try to give a look of nonchalance. Something he'd witnessed Sarah do many times with ease in which he could never seem to emulate correctly but that never stopped him from trying.

The doctor seemed to appraise him again with her lips tightly closed until she raised one of her too perfectly penciled eyebrows. "Surely you must know Mr. Carmichael. They don't just send you to a therapist for nothing."

He felt like she was patronizing him at that moment and he quickly closed his own mouth and moved his eyes back down to the carpet. He received enough condescending attitudes from Casey on a daily basis, Chuck didn't feel he needed to get any from this woman as well.

The silence stretched out between the two for a long time. For once Chuck didn't feel the need to talk, to explain anything, to try and be friendly with the woman before him. For the first time he just wanted her to dismiss him like the rest of the world so he could go back to his meager existence. But the prospect looked grim and Chuck refused to give.

"Well, if you don't wish to start…" Dr. Sanders said, leaving the end of her sentence wide opened for him to jump right in.

"Not bloody likely" Chuck thought to himself.

"Alright." She finally said, flipping a few pages in the folder that was next to her. "Let's jump right into it then. Why are you hurting yourself Mr. Carmichael?" She asked point blank.

A thin smile crossed his lips then. Of course that would be the main point of this required session. The government was worried, not about him, they didn't care about him…about Chuck Bartowski. No they only cared about their precious Intersect. Their only interest in his wellbeing only extended as far as to where it affects the Intersect, then they step in, impose new rules and guidelines, and force him to see this doctor.

"You know, my best friend thinks I'm on an install." He says softly, still not looking up. The pen scratches the paper again for a moment before he feels her eyes on him again.

"Is that why you hurt yourself?" She inquired.

Chuck eyes widened as he looked up finally incredulous seeping from his look. How did she jump so far? The two didn't even make sense. If it weren't for the flash he had gone through once he entered her office Chuck would seriously question the doctor before him. But Dr. Sanders was amongst the top psychiatrist in the CIA, heavily decorated and held in high esteem in the intelligence community.

It didn't impress him at all.

"Mr. Carmichael are you listening? Is that why you hurt yourself? Because of your friend?"

"No. No." He said. "Morgan could be the reason I'm still here."

"And how is that?" She inquired, switching her crossed legs.

Chuck thought about divulging all about Morgan. Waste the whole time just talking about his best friend. It wouldn't be hard, he had loads of stories and he loved him like a brother. But the doctor before him didn't deserve it, didn't seem to want it. Morgan was precious to him and wasn't about to share him with just anyone.

"It doesn't matter." He murmured letting out a loud sigh. And it was the truth. It didn't matter. Nothing did. Chuck the person was just an incidental part of the Intersect. The shell that kept it going and allowed it to work.

"Your handlers are concerned about you. Mr. Carmichael." She said. "You are a very valuable intelligence asset to the government. You need to take better care of yourself."

Chuck scoffed. Better care of himself or of the Intersect? He didn't even bother asking the question, knowing what the answer would already be. The urge to defend himself or to backlash on his handlers and the government began to get strong so he bit his lip hard, drawing blood to prevent himself from saying what was really on his mind. Instead he closed his eyes as the metallic taste of his own blood slowly filled his mouth from the self-inflicted wound, letting his mind focus on that and not on what as currently going on.

"Mr. Carmichael you-"

"Why do you call me that?" He asked suddenly, breaking her off. She closed her mouth and stared at him for a moment before sitting back against her chair once more.

"That is your name, is it not?" She pointed out.

Chuck shook his head slightly, feeling his gut turn at the anger and irritation filled him, the same feeling he hadn't not felt in the past year of this nightmare. "You very well know it's not." He alluded grimly.

The doctor wrote a few more notes on the note pad on her lap before looking back at him, getting ready to speak but once again Chuck interrupted her.

"What's the point in writing anything down Dr. Sanders? You know just as well as I do that nothing of this session will remain. There cannot be any evidence that any of this took place." He said.

"I take notes to better understand my patients Mr. Carmichael."

"CHUCK!" He shouted quickly getting up and standing right in front of her. He stared down at the woman, easily towering over her even if she hadn't been standing. She was a slight little thing with hair tightly up and slightly greying. Huge glasses covered her dark hazel eyes emphasizing the intelligence that lie beyond them. He wanted her to be afraid, to be worried. He wanted her to feel fear that he may somehow lash out and hurt her, but she didn't. She showed nothing but indifference and the anger inside of him bubbled over momentarily before quickly fizzing out, leaving him drained.

"My name is Chuck. I am not this Carmichael you keep calling me. You know that." He spat out at her, turning away. "Why must you keep doing it?"

"Because despite what you think Mr. Carmichael…" She said, emphasizing his name. "You are."

"No-"

"Who you were before doesn't really exist anymore more-"

"That's not true!"

"The life you've been leading the past year is your new cover and this Charles Carmichael is who you really are now."

"NO! Stop." Chuck shouted loudly turning back to her and quickly invaded her space again. He braced his arms on either side of her chair and leaned right into her personal space, leaving no room for her to move away. He had seen Casey do this many times with suspects, knowing it would intimidate them, frighten them.

Chuck never had planned to use it.

"The more you fight who you are the more problems you will encounter." She said simply, not moving either.

Chuck shook his head again and stood up straight, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he stared at her for another moment. "I have to fight. I don't have a choice." He told her. "If I don't, then I will lose the real me, and that thought frightens me more than anything."

The doctor took a deep breath and appeared to hold it in. Chuck could practically hear the counting that is going on in her head and he wondered if she really was as cold as she appeared. If she really believed it was best for a person to shed their natural selves and live their fake lives.

He couldn't really care about the answer if he were honest.

"The real you Mr. Carmichael is irrelevant. What you should be focusing on is keeping your cover. The odd behavior your handlers has witnessed you displaying has them concerned that you may blow it soon. If that is the case…"

"Then they may take me into custody." He finished for her softly. Pushing himself away from doctor, Chuck ambled around the room, not focusing on anything in particular. The whole room felt fake to him and he knew that it was only put together probably that morning for the sole purpose of this session.

"Do you know what I am?" He asked her, picking up a framed photo of a German shepherd. It was dark and the creature had its teeth barred, not looking like a friendly pet in the slightest.

"You are Charles Carmichael, CIA analysis attached to a joint operation with the NSA here in California." The doctor recited, almost word for word from some kind of file no doubt. Chuck scoffed again.

"No Doctor Sanders. That is who you think I am, who I'm being turned into against my will." He told her reaching out for something that lay idly on the shelf below where he replaced the photo of the dog. It was long and sharp and Chuck was pretty sure that it was an oversight to place it in the room, though it did match the rest of the decor.

"And what do you feel is the difference." She asked him, obviously indifferent to Chuck and his change in moods. A smile crept upon his face, giving a wistful breath at how easy it was even now for people to become complacent around him. "Why is the difference so important to you Mr. Carmichael? The Identity that the CIA has put together for you is as air tight as anything. You are becoming a very important person in the intelligence community, achieving what all agents ever wanted."

"Hmm, yes, at the expense of my own self." He told her distractedly as he twirled the object between his fingers.

"When you are property of the US government you don't exactly have that as an option." She told him.

Chuck laughed, genuinely laughed for the first time in forever as he turned around and faced her, the long object clearly in his hands. "Are you seriously a psychiatrist? I mean really, this has to be a joke." He stepped further away from the wall but only to walk around the sides of the rooms, staying clear of the doctor in the middle. "I have to tell you, Dr. Sanders, I've been to many therapist over the years and you are by far the worst."

"And how do you come to that conclusion Mr. Carmichael?" She asked him curiously, her back to him, not even bothering to follow him with her eyes. He knew she was made aware of how docile he was, and it's true, he would never hurt anyone.

"Because they are there to help the person. Not, not whatever this is. You, buying into this whole corporate CIA family crap." He said, walking further around the room, ignoring everything else that lie within until he was standing behind the couch he had vacated not too long ago.

"Mr. Carmichael, I'm only here to help you if you allow me. You were sent to me because of your recent behavior. Why don't you sit down and we can talk more about that." She suggested holding her open hand out towards the sofa.

Chuck stared down at the spot he had vacated, his jaw clenching tightly as he resisted the urge to comply. He was always complying, always giving in. He had no freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted. He didn't have the chance to make choices to follow decisions.

He had no control.

He stared at the woman in front of him for a long moment, watching as her impassive features stared back at him, analyzing him, watching him. A slight shiver went down his spine at the idea of what she could possibly be thinking, what she possibly could do. What would Beckman do once she got the final report?

Shaking his head Chuck took a step back, a hesitant smile crossing his lips, gripping the object in solidly in both hands he took another couple of steps back. He could tell the second the realization crossed the woman's face and she stood up quickly.

"I'm sorry doctor, but I'm afraid our time is up."

With that Chuck held the object, turning out to be a ceremonial dagger away from himself before plunging it into his gut as hard as he could. The pain was devastating as his nerves went into hyper drive and spread the news of injury throughout him. It took more strength than he thought he could muster to pull the dagger out of himself as he felt pools of his own blood pour out of the wound and seep through his shirt and pants and covering the pristine white carpet. There was something beautiful and poetic about the site but he didn't give himself the time to admire it. He didn't have much time. And with that he went to plunge the dagger back into himself.

This time it barely hit. He felt the top of the knife split his skin and felt the blood start to drain but a tight fist on his arm prevented him from putting it further in. He had lost his moment. It didn't matter though as the dizziness from the blood loss and the seeping adrenaline began to leave him. He felt weak and tired and with the last bout of strength he had, he decided to just let it go.

Looking up from his position now lying flat on the carpet in his own blood, he felt pressure on his middle and he knew that they were trying to stop the flow. He prayed to whatever deity was listening to just let him go. Let the pain go away for good.

Wasn't going to happen. He knew it. When Casey's angry face suddenly appeared in his vision he knew that he would live. Casey wouldn't let him die, it was his job to protect him.

"Bartowski, stay awake!" He barked at him as more pressure was placed on his wounds. Chuck let out a small cry of protest before the urge to cough overtook him and he leaned over slightly, coughing hard and gasping for breath. When he finally pulled back he smiled at the blood that had come out and he knew he had probably hit something vital.

Out of energy Chuck lied back down. The pain he had felt at first no longer bothered him, in fact he couldn't feel it. Everything was numb and all the sounds in the room as medics came in and Casey barked at him began to fade into a buzzing noise. Nothing made sense anymore in his head and he was glad of it. And with that final thought, everything went black.

***(((****((((*****(((((*****(((****(((***(

Everything around him was dark and while he couldn't see anything, he still felt as if he'd gone on the graviton several times in a row. The first sounds to hit Chuck were soft beeping noises that gradually got louder and louder as the dizziness started to recede. His eyelids felt too heavy as he attempted to open them so he gave up. If they didn't want to open he wasn't going force them.

He must have fallen asleep after his decision to leave his eyes closed. The beeping was still annoyingly persistent nearby but the dizziness had all but gone. He still felt a bit drowsy but this time when he tried to open his eyes they didn't fight back with all their might.

"Chuck? Chuck, can you hear me?" A feminine voice, 'Sarah' his mind supplied as his eyes blinked several times in the soft light. "Come on Chuck, if you can hear me squeeze my hand." She begged, and he couldn't help but comply.

Using what strength he had he informed forced his mind to tell his fingers to move, to give any form of sign that he heard her. It was hard, and after a moment he almost gave up and exhaustion waved over him again, but he must have done what she requested because began giving him praise as she squeezed his hand back.

With a last attempt to communicate to her by giving her his patented grin, he fell asleep once more.

The next day, or what he presumed to be the next day, his body didn't feel quite as heavy and responded a little quicker. Opening his eyes he blinked across the room, noting that the soft lights that were on before were gone but there was a bright light surrounding everything that he presumed was a window.

He opened his mouth to call for someone only for his breath to hitch in his chest and painful began to cough. Immediately he heard Sarah call his name again as her hands flew to this shoulder and neck, gently petting him in a soothing fashion.

It worked.

"Good morning Mr. Carmichael, it's good to see you." A man's voice opposite Sarah said. He turned his head slowly, feeling the slight tension from laying in one position for who knows how long.

"What?" He asked lamely, his voice hoarse.

The doctor before him placed an iPad which Chuck guessed contained his chart down onto the bed and took out a pen light. He laid still as the yet unknown doctor continued to do his examination, not bothering to ask questions. He probably wouldn't get any information anyways. Chuck was delighted though that through the whole thing Sarah still held tightly onto his hand, perhaps a bit too tight as he was beginning to lose some circulation but he wasn't about to complain.

"Well Mr. Carmichael, you appear to be in good health. Except for the gaping wounds in your gut that is."

"So he's going to make a full recovery Dr. Cline?" Sarah inquired swiftly, her stiff mannerism reminding him of Ellie whenever he had to go to the doctor.

"Yes Agent Walker." He said pulling down the blanket and lifting the thin hospital gown to show Chuck's bandaged injuries. It was the first time he had seen them and they felt very painful as the doctor poked and prodded it. "The wound was messy and he had lost a lot of blood, but luckily he didn't hit any vital organs nor do any unrepairable damage." With that he covered Chuck back up and looked down at him. "You're in for painful recovery but you'll live and with minimal permanent damage."

"Thank god." Sarah muttered, finally releasing his hand but only to use it to cover her face, obviously relieved. Chuck's hand felt immediately cold at the loss of hers and he wanted to reach up to grab it, but he couldn't. His body still felt slightly heavy, obviously he was still on meds.

"The most worrying part is that you had done this yourself Mr. Carmichael." He looked up to Sarah who had by then lowered her hands and crossed them over her chest, listening intently to the Dr. "I recommend someone always be with him, at least until the wound has completely healed. And I also advise he start seeing a therapist-"

"No." Chuck muttered, hating the way his voice sounded weak as he gasped for breath. "No therapists."

The doctor frowned at his patient and crossed his own arms over his chest rigidly. "I understand Mr. Carmichael, I do. I am not a fan of them either but you need some kind of professional help."

"No more therapy." Chuck rasped out, closing his eyes and missing the exchange of looks between Sarah and the doctor.

"We'll talk about it later Chuck." Sarah said softly, but he shook his head best he could as the beeping of his heart monitor went up.

"No. I said no. Don't I get a say?" He cried out desperately. But he didn't get a reply. Instead he heard the doctor shout something to a nurse as he stared into Sarah's soft blue eyes. He felt his eyes getting heavy again and right before he closed them he saw her reach out to him and felt the softness of her fingers brush away a stray hair on his forehead.

****((****((****((****((****((****

The next few days went by in a blur. Chuck spent his time in and out of consciousness, yet another clue that this was not a normal hospital. Sarah had told him one day during one of his lucid periods that it was by order of CIA Director that he remain medicated until fully healed. Chuck was angry and disgusted with the decision as he sunk deeper into himself. After that he couldn't even stand to be in her presence and feigned asleep whenever she was there.

Chuck wasn't even sure how many days had passed as he went in and out. He could feel himself healing, feeling they would ache a little less each day. His body didn't feel as tired and fatigue as he thought he should considering he hadn't left his bed. Found out later someone came in each night to exercise his muscles.

Throughout the whole ordeal Chuck hadn't seen hide nor hair of Casey. His last memory being of the large man hovering over him, large and gripping tightly to his chin, wet with Chuck's own blood demanding that he stay awake. That he will not die. Chuck was sure some threats followed but he couldn't remember what they were.

"What happens now?" Chuck asked Sarah as he sat in the wheel chair by his bed. He knew he must look ridiculous in it, with his long lanky legs being pushed towards his chest, being too tall for the chair. It hurt his almost healed stomach wounds but he reveled in it, enjoying the pain and distraction.

"Well, now we take you home." Sarah said simply, grabbing the rest of his things, and placing them in the duffle bag on the bed. When she appeared to be satisfied that she had gotten everything, she lifted it off the bed and dangled it on the handles of the chair.

"Home? Really?" He asked skeptical, trying to not get his hopes up. He had no idea what the CIA or NSA considered his 'home' at the moment.

Sarah smiled at him before getting behind the chair and began pushing him out the room. "Well not home yet. You still have some more healing to do before then. You don't want Ellie to be suspicious."

Chuck thought about that for a moment.

"You mean, I will get to go home home? To Ellie and Morgan?" He inquired, still trying to not get his hopes up. '

Sarah hummed her response as they continued down the hallway and finally towards the exit. Casey sat in a black SUV waiting for them.

****((****((****((****((****

"Fin"

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! I've always been open about my depression over the years and the past 2 months have been really tough with mental breaks and suicidal tendencies. No worries though I'm almost back to normal!

Next chapter of Chuck vs Himself vs The Rewrite is coming up soon. I'm writing a new chapter 4 and hopefully will get it to charahkids for betaing by Sunday at the latest. Happy Reading!

Missy


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